


a moment, a love

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [9]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Childhood Friends, Exes, F/M, Post-High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Prompt: If you are taking prompts for fics can you do one where feysand dated in high school but broke up in college and are seeing each other for the first time in years? Your writing is just the absolute best!





	a moment, a love

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so long since I started this and have written anything for this fandom that I don't even know if anyone wants to read my stuff any more. But I really like this and I hope you do too!
> 
> Title from Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap

For someone who attends swanky fundraisers on a regular basis, Rhysand really hates it more than he should.  Generally, though, he’s pretty pro-charity so there’s at least the thought niggling in the back of his mind that there is some kind of point to all the seemingly pointless hobnobbing.  Still, his preference is for get togethers mostly filled with people he actually cares about, rather than people who seem semi-afraid of him.  Which is a larger group than most people could boast - and exactly how he likes it.  Keep your friends close and your enemies afraid.  And he means that in the least menacing way possible.

This means, for the most part, he’s not particularly enthused with these types of gatherings.  Though, only those closest to him would realize.  And there _have_ been events he’s enjoyed.  The yearly one he hosts in Velaris with his self-made family, smaller holiday gatherings, and as an outlier, that winter dance at the end of high school.  He’d almost decided not to go that year, more than ready to be out of that cesspool, until he’d realized how much Feyre needed it.  

She’d had that awful blow up with _Tamlin_ along with some family drama the previous Spring and somehow ended up getting drawn into their little ‘inner circle’ of friends.  It took the whole Summer for her to finally feel comfortable enough to open up, and they spent one long, sugar fueled night in his backyard, staring at the stars and talking about _everything_.

He’d wanted to kiss her that night.  With the moonlight in her hair and the first real smile he’d seen on her face - in way too long.  But he didn’t.  And for a while, he kicked himself for letting the moment pass.  Even though the bigger part of him knew she was too raw for anything like what he hoped for.  At least this soon after everything.

So he waited, as unobtrusively as possible.  Keeping her spirits lifted and her life filled with friends and purpose and the more he knew her, the more he felt sure she was everything he’d ever dreamed.

And despite that realization, up until the winter dance, it seemed hopeless.  But Feyre had shown up on his doorstep late one night in November, coat thrown over her ratty sweats and car keys in hand.  Half of him thought he was dreaming, and when she threw herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his, he was almost _positive_.

Until she pulled away and let her fingers knit through the messy hairs that curled at his neck, murmuring, “Go out with me?”

It was possibly the most blissful time of his life, those five months, and part of him knew it was too good to be true.  Too easy.

She’d come over one night, tears in her eyes, a sad mimic of that first time, and told him they had to break up, and she had to leave.  They’d spent that night together, his house empty of parents and hers filled with panic and something she refused to say.  Sleep tugged at their eyelids but they stayed awake, bleary and rumpled until the first light eked over the horizon and Feyre wrenched herself away and tumbled into her beat up car, disappearing around the corner and out of his life.

Until now, apparently.  At this previously deathly boring fundraiser.

Before his sense catches up, Rhysand has his phone in hand, typing out a message to Mor and sending it off with a shaky breath.

**Did we know Feyre lives here?**

_archeron?_

**How many Feyre’s have you known??**

_you recognize her that’s the cutest thing i’ve ever heard_

**She looks the same and we dated.  Shut your face**

_ohhhh someone’s testy_

**I wish I didn’t know you**

_now see_

_what if this was one of those movies where ur wish suddenly comes true_

**I feel like you want me to say something about my life losing all meaning**

_ass_

_also yes i knew_

_we r facebook friends_

_because i believe in making human connections_

Rhysand looks away from the screen, and Feyre’s moving through the crowd, presumably toward the bar.  He can’t help the flicker of hope in his chest when he sees she’s unaccompanied as of yet.

**What does she do?  Do you have an in?**

_i think u need to see what life without me is really like, dickhead_

**Don’t be a brat, Mor  
**

_[Mor is unavailable for her nasty ungrateful cousin]_

Rolling his eyes, Rhysand tucks his phone away, swallows the remainder of his drink and moves toward the bar, swiping a random hors d'oeuvre so he has something to do with his hands.

And completely by coincidence, his arrival is perfectly timed with Feyre’s.  He smiles, light and friendly, searching her eyes to see if there’s a trace of recognition.  “After you, miss.”

She blinks twice, “That’s ok - _Rhysand_?”

Placing one elbow on the bar top, Rhysand makes eye contact with the bartender and waits for them to be served.  _Worth a shot_.  “Fancy meeting you here Feyre, darling.”

Her face lights, a smirk sliding across her lips, “And you, _prick_.” 

Rhysand gestures for her to order first - a champagne - and then orders his own - dirty martini - and hands over the appropriate cash, slipping a few bills into the tip jar.  “Stop with the pet names, you’ll make me blush.”

Rolling her eyes, Feyre tucks her unused wallet away and mirrors his pose.  “Lies.  You’re unflappable.”

Once their drinks are set before them, they move away from the crowded bar and Rhysand tilts his head, “With most people, yes.”

They find an empty stretch of wall and Feyre leans back, sipping her drink, “Is that a line?”

He grins, “With most people.”

Feyre smacks him with her clutch and it’s like they’ve never been apart.

Time passes quicker than it ever has at one of these torturous events and they catch up on everything they can think of, filling their drinks twice before they swipe a tray of crab puffs and sneak away to one of the _technically_ off limits exhibits.

Somehow, they end up lounged on a leaf-strewn balcony, the moonlit night not unlike the one they shared so long ago.  Feyre tosses another crab puff toward him and Rhysand catches it with a snap of his teeth.  She applauds, wriggling her bare toes where they rest in his lap and Rhysand sighs, staring unseeingly toward the sculpture garden.  “Can I tell you a secret?”

Feyre sips her drink.  “Of course.”

“I _hate_ these things.”

“Metalworks?” Feyre asks, gesturing toward the art decoratively strewn across the expansive balcony, a shiver running up her spine as the night wind whips around them.  Rhysand sees and his jacket’s around her shoulders before she can protest.

_“Fundraisers.”  
_

She doens’t answer for a moment, and Rhysand almost thinks she’s sniffing his suit coat, but it’s over before he can really consider the idea.  “Does anyone?  Like fundraisers, I mean,” she fiddles with the stem of her glass, “you’re either asking for money or _being_ asked for money.”

Rhysand tilts his head, “ _True_ ,” he lets his fingers run over her bare ankles, “Do you have one?”

There’s an unmistakable tremble when she asks, “Fundraiser?”

He pinches her leg, light and playful, goosebumps rising across her milky skin, “A _secret._ Wise ass.”

There’s enough of a pause before she answers that he thinks maybe she was just catching up with an old friend, which.  Is perfectly within her rights, but he’s catching up, and the more he has, the more he wants this to _not_ be the end.  He wants to pick up where they were and start from the beginning.  But her eyes are downcast and her hands are fidgety.

He’s still looking for some way to take the pressure off when she murmurs, “I was crazy about you.”

His heart stops.  “Was?”

_“Am.”  
_

She’s avoiding his gaze, eyes fixed on her hands, so he prompts, “Yeah?”

A deep breath.  “Yeah.”

His heart is thudding in his chest, and he can’t decide if he wants to kiss her or just stare at her in the starlight, half afraid that any move will end this little bit of heaven he’s managed to find.

Her nervous laugh breaks the tension.  “I’m feeling very vulnerable right now.”

“We _dated - we - ”_ Rhysand breaks off, blowing out a breath, “I know it was high school, but it meant something to _me.”_

Feyre lifts her feet from his lap and his stomach clenches, thinking somehow he’s ruined things - pushed her away - before they’ve even begin, but she simply moves closer.  She twists sideways on the bench, one leg tucked beneath her as she rests her forehead on his shoulder and murmurs, “Me too.”

Pressing his lips to her temple, Rhysand matches her quiet tone, “But then you left.”

“I left,” Feyre agrees, tugging her wrap higher over her shoulder, warming herself against the evening chill.

“And we lost touch,” he elaborates, smiling wryly, “I don’t have Facebook.”

When the wind picks up again, they adjust clumsily until they’ve made a barrier to the cold with her wrap and his dress coat, and Feyre ends up more comfortably snuggled into his side, fingers tripping over the mother of pearl buttons that march down the front of his shirt.  “I know.  I found Mor when i was trying to find you.”

As her hand runs to his neck, touch tickling his bobbing Adam’s apple, Rhys lets his own cup her jaw, gently so she could pull away.  And she doesn’t, even follows his guidance as he tilts her head toward his, though she keeps up her chatter, “We kept in touch,” their noses brush, “Mor and I - I’m glad she’s working through her -”

Nuzzling her cheekbone, Rhysand grins, teasing, “Can we stop talking about my cousin?”

She chuckles against his lips, glancing up from beneath her lashes, “Well what could we do instead?”


End file.
